


A Lamb Among Wolves

by Captain_Kiri_Storm



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Attempted Murder, Crittendon is his own warning, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eight O'Clock and All Is Well rewrite, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Episode:s08ep155 rewrite, Gestapo, Hochstetter is a bag of dicks, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, M/M, Murder by Proxy, Naked Cuddling, Past Abuse, Sexual Tension, Sexuality Crisis, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Siphord has a backstory, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, identity theft, it's cold, they're cold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29501073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kiri_Storm/pseuds/Captain_Kiri_Storm
Summary: Captain Johann Siphord is really in it this time.For one, he's a pilot, not a spy. For another, he had the acute misfortune of voicing his dislike of a certain Gestapo Major in earshot. That's how he found himself hogtied in the back of a ratty truck, bouncing all the way to the toughest POW camp in Germany. The life expectancy of a German prisoner in the midst of Allied POWs is never very good at the best of times, but when Siphord is placed in the camp under the name of a dead man, his chances go from bad to worse. Hochstetter, of course, expects reports from his pilot turned spy and he's not above letting the Allies kill Siphord for him.It's a damn good thing that Siphord speaks English. It's a better thing that he's bunking with the only American who might listen before he turns to murder.
Relationships: Andrew Carter & Robert Hogan, Robert Hogan & James Kinchloe, Robert Hogan & Louis LeBeau, Robert Hogan & Peter Newkirk, Robert Hogan & Rodney Crittendon, Robert Hogan & Wilhelm Klink, Robert Hogan/Johann Siphord
Comments: 43
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

Thin.

Dirty.

Ragged.

That was the first thing Hogan thought when he looked at the man being dragged into Stalag 13. The guards almost kicked him out of the back of the truck and smacked him around with the rifle. Hogan winced. He winced even more when he saw how tightly the man's arms were wrenched behind his back. Hogan moved closer to get a better look. The Gestapo dragged that poor bastard towards Klink's office and kicked him when he stumbled and he stumbled _a lot_. The man had dirty blonde hair and vicious looking blue eyes. One of his eyes - the right one - was swollen shut and bruises covered every inch of exposed skin. His dirty blonde hair was overlong and he was in desperate need of a shave. But even through all of that, he held his head high and even tried to kick them a few times.

Hogan grinned. If he hadn't lost his last pack of cigarettes last night, he would be been quite impressed. The man was a fighter and that was just what Hogan needed in his little unit. Of course, they would have to vet this new guy and make sure that he wasn't a spy. This blonde was wearing a dirty, ragged pilot's uniform and going by the mats in his hair, a trip to the delousing station was in order. Fleas and lice were a devil to get out of the barracks and the last thing Hogan wanted to do was bring that in. They had just gotten the rats out of the tunnels thanks to a pair of terriers Newkirk had swiped from a farmer. Fleas were going to be so much worse and it wasn't like Hogan could just fumigate the place.

Newkirk threw his cigarette butt on the ground. "Looks like they got another one, Colonel. Want me to get the coffee pot?"

"You do that." Hogan started to walk to Klink's office, neatly evading Hochstetter's scowling guard. He caught up to the bleeding man. "Hey, welcome to the country club! Just remember to tell them your name, rank, and serial number!"

The man glared at him and when he opened his mouth, his teeth were stained with blood. "Thanks. I must have forgotten it in the past two hours!"

Hogan saluted and dropped back. So the new guy was snappish. Hogan would have been snappish, too, if he was bleeding something awful and was getting manhandled by the krauts. When he had been dumped in the middle of this rat hole, he had been sore for the next several days. Hogan hadn't been roughed up, either. Maybe the guy had tried to escape or he had slapped one of the guards. Either way, that was just the kind of man Hogan needed in his ranks. Going by the stripes, the guy was at least a Captain. Now, that meant that Hogan was going to have to share his quarters, but he didn't mind. The guy looked smart and he was certainly scrappy.

LeBeau waved him over as he turned on the coffee pot. "What took you so long?"

"I had to get snapped at. The guy's in a bad mood." Hogan sat down on the desk and fiddled with the coffee pot turned radio. "Don't blame him, though. Hochstetter's goons worked him over real good."

"The woods were full of downed fliers last night," Kinchloe softly noted. He shrugged. "You can't blame the man for being sore at all. Though if he's going to be a real jerk, I don't want him in these barracks. I'm still smarting over Johnson. Now that guy was a real jerk. I don't want to have a repeat of Johnson, no thank you. Hopefully, this guy's attitude will improve after he gets over the bruises."

Hogan hushed all of them as the coffee pot flickered on.

"Colonel Klink," Hochstetter growled. Something thudded like they had just kicked the new prisoner. "This is Captain James Martin of the 4073rd Bomber Squadron. We picked him around Dusseldorf after he was shot down. He fails to understand the superiority of the German people. Don't let him escape, _Kommandant_ , or it will be your head in place of his. I'm going to Berlin for a few weeks and I've left instructions in this folder for you to open after I'm back. Don't let this man escape and keep him safe from the other prisoners."

"So he's a sourpuss," Kinchloe guessed.

Hogan shrugged. "Wouldn't you be? Hochstetter seems to have it in for this guy."

"That's good enough for me!" Carter quipped. "If Hochstetter hates him, he can't be that bad!"

"We've had spies before," Hogan cautioned. "We need to check this guy out first. Kinchloe, see if you can get in contact with London. See if there is a 4073rd and a Captain James Martin. Newkirk, go through his clothes - see if there's any phony labels or something that doesn't check out. The rest of you, ask him a few questions. Turn him over, shake a little, and see what comes out. And, whatever you do, _don't_ ask him about Ty Cobb's batting average. That's the first thing they learn in spy school." He paused and glanced around the little room. "Try not to be too obvious. Don't tell him anything about our operation until London clears him _and_ I personally check him out."

Hogan had known a James Martin, but that had been years ago. He had no idea if he was looking at the same man or another guy who happened to have that name. He turned the coffee pot off and stowed it under his desk. He didn't want to listen to Klink's indoctrination speech while he knew Martin was in pain. That cut of his had looked pretty deep and the man was in desperate need of a bath. Sitting in the back of that truck didn't do a body any favors, either. There was a decent chance that Martin had a few broken ribs on top of whatever else he had. Going by how thin his face was, he had missed a few meals before he was captured or he was sick. There was also the chance that Martin had been in Gestapo custody for a long time.

Hogan shrugged. He was going to clear Martin through London and, before that was done, keep him in the dark. It shouldn't be that hard, right?


	2. Chapter 2

Siphord ached all over and the only thing he wanted to do in the world was belt that annoying Major right across the face. Unfortunately, his hands were cuffed behind his back and his face was still smarting from the last attempt. His belly was almost hollow with hunger, too, and it was hard to see with blood dripping in his eyes. Apparently, Hochstetter's man wasn't supposed to use a bayonet on the prisoners, no matter how annoying they might have been. Siphord found himself in this mess because of something Hochstetter wasn't supposed to hear - namely, that Siphord had unfavorably compared him to a rabid dog. Siphord wasn't sure if Fischer had ratted him out or if that greasy toad of a man actually had ears in the back of his head.

Knowing the way Hochstetter operated, it was probably the latter.

Siphord shifted around in his new clothes. They smelled like sweat, shit, and death, meaning that they belonged to a dead man. Going by the name tag and the half scrawled label, the uniform and jacket had belonged to an _American_ dead man. A dead Captain, like he was, and they shared the same first name, though Martin was a James instead of a Johann. He had the feeling that the other prisoners in the camp were expected to do Hochstetter's dirty work. The man seemed to be of the opinion that a bullet wasn't good enough for men that he thought of as traitors and perhaps that was why he wanted Siphord to be executed in this manner. As far as Siphord cared, it was a death sentence without the firing squad.

The _Kommandant_ , a Junker half-breed by the name of Klink, strutted around the office like a peacock. "Well, Major, this is the most secure POW camp in all of Germany! I can assure you that this Captain Martin isn't going to escape, so you needn't worry. As for the other prisoners, well, you needn't worry about them either. They're just as tame as kittens. They won't harm him."

"I was counting on them doing the opposite," Hochstetter growled. "This man is useful to me right now. I will be retrieving him on occasion to interrogate him further. As soon as I am done with him, you are free to do as you please."

Siphord set his jaw. " _I won't tell you anything_!"

"He speaks German like a native," Klink noted. "Did one of our men go bad?"

"Something like that," Hochstetter softly replied. "Whatever you do, don't tell the prisoners until I'm ready. I have him here because I need the cell space - I have more traitors to deal with and this... _Captain Martin_... is only of passing interest. That said, I don't want him dead and I don't want him under heavy guard in your cooler until I'm done with him. He has incentive, you see, to give me what I want. If I tell these men what he is, that he's under the name of a man I killed, they'll execute him. Brutally, I assume."

Siphord shivered. He had heard stories about the Gestapo doing this and the way they told the guards to look the other way. He didn't want that to happen to him, but he had no idea how he was going to pull this off. If this truly was the toughest POW camp in all of Germany, he wasn't going to be able to escape. Everyone who crossed Klink either died or met disgrace. The man was a legend in Berlin - the number of men he revealed to be traitors and killed for the glory of the Reich was starting to be astounding. Siphord wondered if Klink was going to quietly kill _him_. The man certainly didn't look like he was very scary - he was very tall and thin and hand a monocle - but seeing was deceiving.

"Take him away," Hochstetter growled. He smiled when Klink's guards marched into the room. "Do be careful with him. Captain Martin is a very _special_ prisoner."

Siphord shoved the man away from him as soon as the cuffs were removed. He rubbed his wrists as he stood there. Most men were inside the rude looking wooden barracks and the plain earth was nothing but a sea of mud. Everything was in a shade of olive drab or weathered grey wood. There were guards with guns all over the place. They wore clean, nice uniforms instead of something that had once graced the body of a dead man. Siphord stood on the porch for the longest time. He understood English quite well and spoke it decently, too. He had gone on a trip through America when he was a small child and knew enough about the place to be interesting. He hoped it would be enough now.

A tanned man with slightly curly black hair tapped him on the shoulder. "I see Klink got done with the indoctrination speech. He's getting faster. So. Who are you and what brings you to the country club?"

"I am Captain Martin of the 4073rd," Siphord slowly said. He had to force the English words across his tongue. "I was... shot down a little bit ago. I don't think the Gestapo likes me very much."

"Yeah?" the man asked. He pulled at his bomber jacket, his dark eyes glittering in the weak sunlight. "What did you do to him?"

"I spat in his face," Siphord replied. It wasn't a lie.

The man whistled. "Yeah, that would do it. The name's Colonel Hogan. Since you're a Captain, you're going to be bunking with me. A few quick facts about the Hotel Kraut - lights out at ten, we're not mean to Schultz even if he cheats at poker and steals from the Red Cross packages, pick up after you're done with the Rec Hut, and don't try to go over the wire. Seriously, these guys will kill you. Oh, and Captain? Let's get you through the showers and the delousing station. There should be enough hot water to keep you from getting chilled and, if not, we'll bribe a few guys and get you in the kraut NCO showers. Because, no offensem you kinda stink and I want to get that cut looked at."

"Thank you." Siphord tried to smile. "And my uniform? This is all the clothes I have and my dog tags were... lost."

Hogan shrugged. "I'll get Newkirk to see if he can get the stains out. What did you do, go swimming through a sewer?!"

"Something like that." Siphord smiled thinly and followed him back to the barracks.

"So. 4073rd. Happy Hawks, right?" Hogan casually asked.

"What?" Siphord racked his brains. He thought that was wrong, but... "No, we're the Fighting Kangaroos. Or we were - I've been gone for awhile. I don't know if Boyle had to take the kangaroo back to Australia or not."

"Right." Hogan's expression was unreadable. "So, you were under Colonel Lacks, right?"

Siphord _knew_ that was wrong. "No, that was that 512th. We were under Major General Reeves. Or we were - again, I've been gone for some time and I know men were killed."

"About that," Hogan replied. "What happened to your men?"

"They died." That wasn't a lie - Siphord's squad had been destroyed by Allied fighters just days before he was taken. "I don't know what happened to a few of them, but most of them were strafed as they parachuted down. I never could find any of them that still lived in the woods, just the dead. So I don't know, Colonel, and I don't think I could tell you."

Hogan nodded and took him into the delousing station. Siphord hoped that he was going to be able to keep himself alive and keep Hochstetter happy until the war was over.


	3. Chapter 3

There was something off about one Captain James Martin and Hogan intended to get to the bottom of it. Sure, the man knew all the right answers to his questions, but those could be learned just about anyone with a functioning radio and a head for military matters. The oddest part about the man, though, was just how cautious he was. For a man who had supposedly spat in Hochstetter's face, he was very shy and almost apologetic. It was like he was feeling around for the rules before he broke one of them. Now, being worked over by Hochstetter's goons to the extent that he had been probably didn't help matters in the confidence department, but most Allied fliers Hogan knew were downright cocky.

It probably came with the territory of being on the side of all that was good and right, but who was Hogan to judge?

He knocked on the door as he slipped into Barracks 2. "I'm going to need a uniform in about Martin's size, a new pair of boots, and a first aid kit. Kraut or not, that gash on his face is starting to worry me."

"London did check him out," Kinch said as he exited the tunnel. "They were surprised he was still alive, actually. Most of his men wound up scattered around in prison camps all over Germany. The rest of them are dead or like he was. They said he's been gone for a good six months now - got shot down over Dusseldorf on one of those night bombing missions after knocking the hell out of a secret ball bearing factory. Either that's Martin or we've got a guy with really good plastic surgery in here."

"Thanks," Hogan replied. He grabbed the uniform and the kit from Newkirk. "Newkirk, go get his dirties from the showers. I want to make dead certain that those are actual American clothes and he's not an imposter. I don't care if you have to take his clothing apart by the seams - if he asks what you're doing, tell him that you're going to burn them for fear of lice. If he's been in one of Hochstetter's cages for the past six months, there is no telling what kind of nastiness he's picked up. Carter, get Langenscheidt and tell him that we need a tuberculosis, malaria, and typhus test. I don't know if he's a carrier, but I don't want to risk it. If Langenscheidt complains, offer him double the going rate."

He shoved the clothing under his arm and marched across the compound. Newkirk had had to guess on almost everything, so there was no telling if the uniform would fit him or not. Klink didn't seem to care that Hogan and his men had a stash of spare uniforms lying around - probably all Klink cared about was it saved them just a little on laundry soap. The first aid kit had been a gift from the Red Cross and it even had a handy insert on how to do proper sutures that wouldn't pop open at the slightest opportunity. None of the guards paid him any mind as he walked by them. Most of them were on the Allied payroll by now and the few that weren't didn't care enough to look anyways. Klink truly did attract the lackluster fools and the dunderheads. Hogan didn't know if it was a gift or on purpose.

He knocked on the worn wooden door before he pushed inside. The POW officers were allowed to use the German NCO showers, while the German officers used something in the main office. Hogan wasn't thrilled about the arrangements - he preferred to shower _out_ of the common line of sight - but it was better than taking a cold bath because Weston in Barracks 5 left the water running. Martin had tossed all of his clothes on one of the ledges. Hogan picked it up and ran his hands over the material. It all looked legit - in fact, it looked just like the uniform Hogan was wearing now - and it smelled worse than a pit toilet in May. It reeked so much, in fact, that Newkirk actually was going to add it to the burn barrel instead of washing it.

"Captain Martin?" Hogan moved aside to let Newkirk dump the filthy uniform in one of his baskets. "I've brought you some new clothes and something for that face of yours."

Martin grumbled something, but he had a towel wrapped around his waist. "Thanks? I mean... It would be very good to have newer clothing. If you don't mind...?"

Hogan and Newkirk obliged him by turning their backs to let him dress in peace. Going by what Hogan could see in the reflection, Martin had been lashed. Those wounds were going to need to be washed out and maybe even disinfected. Martin took his time dressing and by the time he was done, Hogan swore he could have grown a foot long beard. Newkirk had already left with the basket of reeking clothes, which left Hogan counting needles, bandages, and tubes of ointment on the ratty looking bench.

"Took you long enough," Hogan muttered.

"The krauts don't let you change in peace," Martin grumbled. "I was just going to savor it, you know? I... rather like my privacy. Apparently that's not a thing in Germany."

"Come here," Hogan sighed. He pulled the man down and stroked through his wet hair. "I don't want that nasty cut of yours to get infected."

Martin sighed and settled down beside him. The blood had stained his hair a light shade of red and his eyes fluttered some when Hogan dabbed at it with a cotton ball. He wetted everything down with iodine before the main show started. According to the little book open on his lap, Hogan needed to give him a jab of the local and then trim back the skin flaps before bandaging everything up. That sounded positively ghastly, but you had to do what you had to do. Besides, Martin seemed like he appreciated the painkiller and maybe Hogan held his hand when the needle went in. Martin winced and shuddered like he was scared of needles and maybe he had a reason. The krauts were experimenting with all kinds of truth serums. Maybe they had tested it on him.

"Am I gonna make it, doc?" Martin weakly joked.

Hogan grinned. "Take two aspirin and wake me up if it starts bleeding in the middle of the night. Speaking of, it's going to get bloody cold. You might want to bunk with me until the spring thaw."

"I'll be fine," Martin sighed. He shuddered some and jerked his hand back like he had been scalded. "I promise that I'm not going to freeze to death."

Hogan rolled his eyes. Five bucks said Martin would be wanting to pool blankets, coats, and body heat right around three AM.


	4. Chapter 4

Siphord closed his eyes. He didn't much trust the Allied soldier poking around his face, but he didn't have much of a choice. Besides, it made the pain go away. He hadn't noticed how much it was hurting him until the pain faded. He dabbed his face with a wet cloth and tried to act like he was ashamed of his body. He had no idea why the Americans hated their bodies that much - it was something very strange to him, but he was a good actor. If he hadn't been a flier, he would have joined the local acting guild and plied his trade that way. He had always enjoyed playing on the stage, wearing the fancy clothes, and making people laugh and smile. Then the war happened and everything went to hell.

"Hey." Hogan smiled softly and helped him stand up. "Are you okay? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," Siphord lied. He sighed and closed his eyes. "I... I was in a great deal of pain. It's better now, but it still feels bad. They beat the hell out of me and the bath might have eased the pain. You taking the pain out of my face helped, but it's... It's still bad. And I'm very tired. All I want to do is sleep, please. I really am quite tired. Almost dead on my feet."

"Come on, Martin." Hogan held out his hand and helped him up. Siphord leaned against his strength, trying to keep the pressure off of his wounded side. Hogan, at least, waited on him. "You really are tired, then. I don't know how we're going to get you through evening roll call. Klink's a stickler for these things and I don't want to have to carry you out. I did that once. Carter - one of my men - got the flu and the infirmary was full of sick krauts. The local SS squad got themselves blown up with their own ammunition, so they decided to take over our sick bay. Klink didn't want to let Carter sleep in his quarters, so Carter wound up being dragged out to roll call. It made him sicker and we almost lost him. Thank god for penicillin."

"Agreed." Siphord struggled through the muddy, uneven ground and sighed softly. "I just need to rest, please."

"I know." Hogan opened the door for him and showed him what passed for officer's quarters. "I'll wake you up when it's time for evening roll call. What exactly do you want for dinner - whatever LeBeau cooks up with his magic or the camp rations?"

Siphord struggled into the bottom bunk and arranged the thin, scratchy blankets around his body. The mattress was thin and bumpy - bits of straw poked through the thin flannel and jabbed through his cotton shirt. Siphord pulled Martin's jacket over him. He touched Martin's dog tags and ran his hands over the metal. He didn't know who the real Martin was, but he hoped the man was okay with what Siphord was doing. Siphord had never met the real Martin - going by the bloodstains, Martin had been dead for at least a week - but he liked to think that Martin would like him. Perhaps they could have talked about Roy Rogers or Gene Autry. Siphord liked those old movies, but it was hard to find other Germans who did.

That was something that might get him killed now, along with the small collection of Zane Grey novels Siphord had once adored. He wondered what happened to those books. Knowing Hochstetter, they had been burned along with other books or turned into fertilizer. Siphord wished he had those books now, because he was bored and still in pain. He rolled over a little bit and found a small pile of books tossed on a worn wooden chair. He grabbed one of them and flipped it open. It was a rather boring book, detailing the rise and fall of Tsarist Russia. Siphord closed that one quickly. It was like trying to wade through mud and he was looking for a much lighter story to pass the hours.

Hogan knocked and poked his head under the bed. "Ah, I see you've found my books."

"I got bored." Siphord handed him the book back and glanced at the other three books dropped on top of the chair like they were worthless. "Would it be alright if I read those? It's been a long time since I've read a decent book."

"Sure." Hogan picked them up and blew dust off the covers. "Hmm. Looks like we have _Up Front_ , the Reader's Digest version of _Moby Dick_ , _David Copperfield_ , _Robinson Crusoe_ , and _White Fang_ , and something from home that I don't think I want you to get into. That one's private property, so I'll put that in my bunk. And I see you've found the Russia book - that was a gift from Marya and I haven't gotten around to using it as kindling yet."

"I'll take the Reader's Digest book, please," Siphord replied. He grabbed it and cracked the book open eagerly. "You wouldn't be able to get cowboy romances, would you? I seem to have misplaced my collection."

"Cowboy romances?" Hogan asked. "Martin, what exactly are you talking about?!"

Siphord swore under his breath. "You know, Zane Grey? Clarence Mulford? Max Brand? Don't tell me that you've never bought a dime novel at a newsstand? A quarter will get you a novel, the newspaper, and cheap coffee."

"No, I can't say that I have," Hogan sighed. "Just my luck."

"What?" Siphord quickly asked. He carefully bookmarked the page he was on with a piece of straw. "What's just your luck?"

_That you caught a kraut wearing an American uniform?_

"That my roommate likes cowboy novels," Hogan groaned. He rubbed his face as he sat in the old, worn chair. "You know, I was hoping that there would be another few officers around here, but I never thought they would be spending their money on cheap fiction. But hey, I'll write to the Red Cross. What books do you want? Don't be greedy, by the way. We can only get so much."

"I would like Hopalong Cassidy and anything with Roy Rogers," Siphord quickly replied. "Though, if I had to pick, I would take Hopalong Cassidy over everything else."

"Splendid," Hogan groaned. He grabbed a pen and started to scrawl down a note. "Just don't tell the men, will you? I'll never hear the end of it if you do."

Siphord smiled softly. "Your secret is safe with me. I won't take them out of this room to salvage your oh-so-tender pride."

He meant every word. Hogan just smiled and playfully threw a wad of paper at him. Siphord did feel better - maybe there was a way he would get through this after all. And maybe lead balloons would fly.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well?" Hogan poked the fried cabbage and tried to debate if he was actually going to eat this or not. "What's the word from London?"

"So there was a Captain Martin of the 4073rd," Newkirk softly replied. He leaned over the worn wooden table and glanced towards the guards. "He went missing about three months ago and your Army thought he was dead. They usually declare a guy KIA after two months, you know, but his mother started a writing campaign and got them to declare him MIA for a little bit longer. We probably need to send her a letter, by the way. If she's thought that he's dead for all this time... We need to tell her that he's not dead and actually alive and well here. London wasn't able to send a picture from his file - they think it was misplaced - but the description matches. Well, mostly. He's hair's a little light."

"Hair color's mostly opinion anyways," Hogan sighed. He dumped the sausages - mostly breadcrumbs and sage with very little meat - in thin, watery gravy. "I wish it wasn't my turn to eat in the canteen. This stuff is _awful_."

Newkirk nodded. Newkirk had been there longer than they all had and he had a few scars that came from abuse rather than someone getting wounded. Hogan had never pressed the man, just like they never pressed him about his past. Hogan stabbed at the slimy cabbage and wished he had a little bit of vinegar to go on top of it. His grandparents had fled the Trail of Tears and this was a starvation food if you asked him. If they wanted to make a real lousy meal, they should have added a little frybread and maybe pig livers. Maybe the Gestapo had a book on how to mentally torture Choctaw POWs. Besides, if one wanted to make this starvation ration better, it needed a little bacon grease and maybe some salt. And a strong vinegar. Expensive vinegar, because this needed a decent flavor to deal with the awful texture.

Hogan mopped up the greasy gravy with the roll and mentally plotted the best course to the latrine. This was going to get him in the middle of the night and he wasn't going to enjoy it. The fact that he had a roommate was _really_ going to bite him. The last thing he wanted to do was trip over Martin in the middle of the night. He choked down the rest of the meal because he was hungry, not because he liked it. Hogan had to keep from starving, though, and he needed to keep warm during the long winter nights. Martin was going to get LeBeau's good cooking for a few days to get the weight back on him and give him reserves if any of the tests came back positive. That meant Hogan was taking Martin's place in the chow line.

Not that Hogan would consider this "food" to be dog chow, that was.

"What about the labels?" Hogan asked. He pushed the plate away and washed it down with a gulp of tepid water. "Speaking of, we don't want Martin to get traveler's sickness. I don't know what's in that water, but I know it's not clean. He's not what we call healthy right now and I don't want to play games with what's left of his health."

Newkirk stood up and ambled towards the door. "The labels check out. Everything's legit. There were a few odd bloodstains, but if he spent three months in Gestapo custody, he's going to have some weird bloodstains. Maybe he tried to clean off his face or something."

"Or something." Hogan shoved his hands into his pockets and ambled towards the door. "So he sounds good, then. Everything's good? London thought he was dead, which means that we must have missed him during our sweeps. I'll use him as a cautionary tale to get the boys to be more careful next time. We don't need to have more Martins running around. I don't know if he gave anything up, but I don't want to take any chances. Think we should ask him if he talked, Newkirk? Not that we would blame him - they _really_ worked that poor bastard over."

"Yeah, I know," Newkirk sighed. He ambled towards the barracks. "Wonder what he had on him that made them want him so much."

Hogan had his ideas - Martin probably did something with RADAR and was feeling them out to make sure that they weren't krauts - but he didn't say anything. He puled his cap on tighter and turned his collar up against the cold. If there was one thing he hated the most about Germany, it was the cold. Hogan felt like he never could get warm, no matter how many pieces of newsprint or rags they shoved in the cracks or the amount of wood shoved into the pitiful little furnaces. Hogan bit his bottom lip. Martin was going to be cold and if he was too proud to share body heat, there was a good chance that he might wind up dead. If Newkirk was going to go to the trouble of writing a letter, they probably needed to keep Martin alive.

He knocked on the door - it felt so odd to do that, but it was still nice - before he opened it. Martin hadn't got up from his nest on the bottom bunk. For once, Hogan was grateful that Marya had given him that book on Russia. It was the biggest one and a bookworm like Martin was going to go for that first. Hogan had been in the habit of leaving the codebook under his paltry collection of books. Klink never looked closely at the pile and Schultz couldn't read English. Martin, who had an accent vaguely reminiscent of the Midwest, could read and read quite well going by the way he was devouring that Reader's Digest book. Hogan didn't know how he would explain that one away without blowing his entire operation.

"You settling in nicely?" Hogan asked.

"As nicely as I can be," Martin softly said. He put the book down. "Dinner was very nice, though. I'm afraid that I can't speak French, so I don't think I can thank him properly."

" _Hast du eine Zigarette_?" Hogan quickly asked. He actually did need one, but it would be nice to test Martin using German. If the guy was a kraut... "I _ch hätte wirklich gerne einen_."

"I'm sorry?" Martin asked. He frowned and cocked his head like a confused dog. "Could you run that by me again? I don't know what you're asking."

Hogan grinned sheepishly. "Do you have a cigarette? I lost my last pack in the poker game last night and I kinda need one. I don't want to beg one off my men - I don't think I could stand the humiliation of having to ask them for one."

Martin smiled softly and then hung his head. "I... I don't have any cigarettes, Colonel. I was hoping you would have some."

"Ah, well." Hogan climbed up to his bunk and hid the codebook. "Such is life. Oh, and... it's gonna get cold soon. Think you might be interested in budging over in a little bit? I don't want to freeze my feet off!"

Literally.


	6. Chapter 6

Siphord didn't want to cuddle up with another man, but he had the feeling that he might freeze to death otherwise. The heater here was so pitiful that it was probably only making the room colder rather than warming it up. Sure, Colonel Hogan had a nice pile of wood and enough newspaper to stock a paper stand, but that didn't mean the room was going to stay warm. Besides, the blankets were rumpled in a way that suggested Hogan was used to sleeping under them, too. Siphord sighed some. He put his books down and neatly tucked them into the little shelf beside his bunk. He hated the way the straw rustled under his body and how it poked through the worn American clothes.

"I think I would like to share, yes," Siphord replied. He smiled a little and climbed up to the top bunk. "Tell me, Colonel Hogan, do you snore?"

"Nope." Hogan rolled over and almost slid over the side of the bunk to grab the other blanket. "You know, this will go nicer if we have _all_ the blankets, right? Not just mine? We need all we can get to keep warm. If you had the new greatcoat, we could be even warmer. I heard they were issuing that to some of the guys in France."

"That must have happened after I was captured," Siphord lied. He snuggled into the blankets and tried not to cringe when Hogan wrapped around him. "What exactly are you doing, Colonel?"

"Keeping warm," Hogan grumbled. He must have been tired, because his next words were thick and muddied. "We kinda like to do that in Stalag 13. I don't want to write your mother a letter that you died after we told her you're still alive."

Siphord opened his mouth to say something - to ask these men to not tell Martin's mother that Martin wasn't dead - but Hogan was asleep and Siphord didn't know how he was going to word that one without blowing his cover. He lay awake for the longest time wondering how he was going to get out of this mess. He had flown over North Africa for nearly two years now. That was where he should be - not rotting in a POW camp among Allied fliers. If they knew what he was... Siphord didn't let himself finish the thought. It was going to be like fitting a sand dune, just a little more bloody and a little longer until he died. At least there was enough food here. It tasted good, which was always a perk.

Siphord wondered what his men were saying about him. He had gone to Paris for a bit of well deserved leave - he had been in Libya for nearly a year with no respite - and two months of leave wasn't nearly enough. Sometimes, his hands still shook from the strain of flying through a sandstorm. He would have started drinking, but drinking just made it harder for you to eat. The Allies had a liking for German field rations, so they stole food or blew up what they couldn't take with them. They generally left hospital supplies alone and Rommel tried to return the favor, but other supply trains were hard hit. It was a good day when they got a little pumpernickel bread and some plain jam.

Meat - especially the amount of chicken that Siphord had wolfed down tonight - almost never happened. For Christmas, a bag of nuts slipped through. It made a nice treat when roasted and fried in a little ghee and salt. It had been a very long time since Siphord had had a bit of proper German food. He would kill for a bite of proper sauerbraten or potato pancakes. Sure, the food LeBeau made was good, but it wasn't his mother made. For one, it was French. For another, it was cooked over a shitty little stove and served in soiled, bent tin. Siphord had eaten worse. He never wanted to see another plate of stewed lentils ever again and if he never had to eat a plate of boiled goat hooves and rice, it would be too soon.

Someone shone a light in his face and a very fat Sergeant walked into the room like he owned the place. Hogan just grumbled and shoved his face into Siphord's back. Siphord stared at the man. Hatred bubbled under his skin and he wanted to treat that fat failure to the four letter chorus. How _dare_ he. How dare he wax fat and happy while men were starving in the desert and in Stalingrad?! Siphord had spent many nights in the desert drinking mint and water to quiet a hungry belly. He couldn't _imagine_ having so much food that one looked like their overlarge uniform was strained at the seams. He glared at the man and wished there was a way he could snarl at the man without blowing his cover.

"You fat son of a bitch!" Siphord hissed.

"That's Schultz," Hogan slurred. He tightened an arm around Siphord's middle. "He's a nice guy. Don't take it out on him for waking us up. 'n go back to sleep, please. I don't wanna get up before roll call."

"Colonel Hogan is right," Schultz replied. He patted the blankets. "Why are you in the same bed?"

"Because it's _cold_ ," Siphord growled. He narrowed his eyes and swatted at the offending beam of light. "Now go away and let us sleep. We're very tired and we don't want to talk with the likes of you."

"Touchy, touchy, touchy," Schultz said.

"Go away!" Siphord swatted his pillow at the man and just barely held on. "Leave us alone!"

Hogan squeezed him again, probably as a warning, and Siphord took the hint. He buried himself under the blankets and tried not to think about his men in the desert. They would be starving right now, curled up around a fire and trying to keep warm. Their birds would be half buried in the sand by the time they woke up and the nomads would be harassing them when the moon was so bright it cast shadows over the sand. Siphord didn't want to think of how hungry they might be when his own belly was full. And that was even with Colonel Hogan eating the camp food while he ate LeBeau's cooking. If Siphord could, though, he would gladly send that food to his fliers whilst he went hungry.

He cared for his men, much like Hogan cared for his. Siphord would have liked to think that bonded them, but he knew it didn't. If Hogan knew what he was, Siphord would be dead in a few hours.

It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was the last he had before sleep claimed him.


	7. Chapter 7

Hogan woke up with a mouth full of hair and an arm filled with squirming Allied Captain. Hogan didn't blame Martin - the man was clearly worked up and he was volatile enough to go after Schultz - but the last thing he wanted to do was get elbowed in the gut. He liked keeping his insides were they were, thank you very much. Hogan waited for a minute, debating if he wanted to get up and face the cold in order to start the stoves. As much as he might want to lie in, though, he had to make sure that his men were warm. Besides, he needed some coffee. Hogan peeled himself away from a very distressed Martin and pulled on his thermal pants along with his leather jacket. He had to keep warm until the stoves decided to work after all.

Martin rolled over and cried out. " _No_! Becker - don't go! Please don't leave me!"

Hogan frowned when Martin trailed off into panicked German. Something about sand, RADAR, the Gestapo, and plenty of curses about Hochstetter. He leaned over and brushed his hands across the man's twisted and knotted forehead. Martin thrashed after a second and landed quite a powerful blow against Hogan's shoulder. Hogan grunted and took a step back. That hurt. That actually _really_ smarted. Hogan reached up and touched his now aching jaw. He opened his mouth and flexed his jaw for a second. Martin had quite the right hook for such a shy, mild mannered guy. Hogan was willing to bet that he worked RADAR or, going from what he was talking about, was stationed around Cairo or some place in the South Pacific.

That, or Martin saw some really good war films before he was treated to the Dusseldorf Ritz.

Hogan shook Martin. "Hey, hey! Martin! Wake up! You're having a bad dream!"

Martin rolled over and gave him a _really_ stupid look. "Who's Martin?"

"You," Hogan sighed. He rubbed his neck. "Let me guess. You're not human until you've had at least two cups of coffee. Well, let me get the stoves on and I'll see if we can get enough water. Might have to melt some snow for the water, though. Pipes mighta busted and I'm gonna let Klink be the one to find that out. The snow's generally clean on the roof and I can get that easy enough. Say, think you can get the stoves started while I get snow for the coffee?"

Martin nodded and slid out of bed. He seemed to know his way around fatwood, German newsprint, and matches. Hogan left him to get the stoves all fired up while he grabbed a semi clean pail, opened the door, and started climbing to the roof. This was a job he usually left for LeBeau, but the little Frenchman was still fast asleep. Besides, this was a good time to really feel out Martin. The fact that Martin was calling for a guy named Becker wasn't that concerning - Becker was a pretty common surname in Ohio. There had been two Beckers in his old unit, after all, and both of them were fine, upstanding pilots. Hogan was a little more concerned about the German, though.

Martin spoke German like a native. Hogan always had a bit of an accent when he spoke German, something that he passed off as being from East Frisia or even the French Flanders if he wanted to really get creative. Martin, though, lost all trace of his vaguely Midwestern accent. Part of Hogan wondered if the man was some kind of spy. He was (mostly) sure that London would have let him know if Martin was a spy or not. He was also pretty sure that Martin would have committed suicide via a nicely placed cyanide pill if he was captured by the Gestapo. No, it was more likely that the man had a head for languages and he might have even been from a place that spoke an old dialect of German in the home.

Kinch told him that was fairly common in remote places of Tennessee or Alabama, so it wasn't that much of a stretch to figure that Martin might have learned German from his family.

Hogan climbed down off of his improvised ladder with the pail of packed snow and carried it inside. Martin had gotten the stoves warm for once and he appeared to be tinkering with the one on rollers. Hogan watched him as he started to fill the dented blue coffee pot with water. He wasn't too obvious - he just wanted to make sure that the krauts hadn't slipped a cuckoo in the nest. Martin ignored him. He cursed and jerked his hands back when the fire suddenly flared. The man just stood there for a second, a look of confusion on his face, before he dusted himself off and got up. Hogan smiled softly. He was pretty sure that nothing was damaged but Martin's pride.

"Hey, Martin?" Hogan quickly said. "Think you might want to get some coffee before everyone else wakes up?"

Newkirk groaned and looked over from his bunk. "Coffee?"

"Coffee." Hogan grinned and held up the bucket of snow. "Pipes broke."

"Wake me up when spring comes, Colonel," Newkirk yawned. He rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. "Or when the coffee's done. Whichever comes first."

Hogan opened his mouth to say something, but he cringed when Colonel Klink's shrill voice echoed through the still and quiet camp.

"Report! _Repooort_!" Klink bellowed. "On the double! _Report_!"

"Schultz has the day off," Hogan quipped. He pulled his boots on and grinned. "I guess he found the broken pipes, by the way. Must have been a frosty morning over in Chez Klink."

Hogan laced his boots, woke the man, and ambled out to grace the freezing cold morning. Martin followed at a much more sedate pace and looked like he was going to fall asleep on his feet. Hogan counted the guards and nodded when he saw that he was right. Schultz had the day off, which was why they got woken up by being bellowed at instead of poked with a bayonet. Schultz didn't mean anything by it, but it did get annoying and Hogan didn't want Martin to actually hit the guy. Martin was probably cagey enough to get in a fight with the guards, so Hogan grabbed him by the collar and forced a smile on his face. He liked Martin. The last thing Martin needed to do was get in a fight that he would lose.

"I get the temptation," Hogan hissed, "but you're not going to actually hit someone if I can help it."

"My men are _starving_ ," Martin growled. "And that man, that stupid, rat terrier of a man, looks like he's throwing parties, drinking champagne, and eating caviar. While we beg, barter, steal, and pick from the trash!"

"I didn't know things had gotten that bad in Libya," Hogan whispered.

"It's bad for morale so they don't publish it," Martin replied. "But the supply lines are over extended or shot to hell. It's near impossible getting airplane parts, too. You would be surprised what you can patch with beer cans, Japanese magnetos, ration tins, and spit."

Hogan wouldn't doubt it. He opened his mouth to say something, but that was when he saw a familiar black car roll into camp. His heart sunk to the tips of his boots. Hogan suddenly swallowed and glanced over to the suddenly pale Martin. Hogan wanted to scream that this was unfair, that Martin needed a chance to get his health back, but when did the Gestapo care about being fair? There was no telling what that bastard Hochstetter would do with Martin. Hogan wished he could stop this without showing his hand, but there was nothing he could do. He just squeezed Martin's hand and prayed to anything that might hear him that Martin would return in one piece.

Major Hochstetter stormed into camp and barged through their little formation. He dragged Martin through the mud before slapping the man upside the head right before he started taking Martin towards the cooler.

"Now, Captain Martin," Hochstetter thundered, "you're going to tell me _everything_!"


	8. Chapter 8

Siphord felt like he was going to get sick. Suddenly, he wished he had told Colonel Hogan everything and just let them rip to bits. It would be so much better than letting this animal do horrible things to him. Siphord felt his skin crawl as he realized that there was a very good chance he wasn't going to get out of this alive. Hochstetter looked like he was very pleased with himself. He looked like a terrier holding a particularly annoying rat - a rat he was planning to shake to death when he realized that Siphord had no information for him. He wanted to plead that he needed more time, but he knew that would never fly with a Gestapo man. Hochstetter wanted results and he wanted results _now_.

Siphord wanted to crawl in a hole and die there.

Hochstetter turned on him the second Siphord was locked in a cell. "Where is Colonel Hogan?!"

"In formation?" Siphord guessed. "He was right behind me and grabbed by the back of the neck to keep me from hitting the _Kommandant_. Major... I... I have found no information for you. It's a normal POW camp. I... We are woken at all hours of the night for inspections and this morning, Colonel Hogan was climbing the roof for snow for our coffee. The pipes broke. It was very cold last night and I was too close for comfort to a man who would like to kill me." Siphord gripped the bars of the cell and tried to brace himself for the blows. "There is no operation here, none at all. There is some cooking in the barracks, yes, but that is to be expected. And the guards will sell a man cigarettes for a dirty magazine."

"You looked at..." Hochstetter glared at Siphord. "Are you mad as well as a traitor?!"

"No, I wrote to the Red Cross for Zane Grey novels," Siphord dryly replied. "I didn't look at the magazines, I just noticed that a few of the guards were using those as a form of currency. Remember that I am used to spotting commandos in the desert - I am not a fool and I am not a traitor."

No, he was just a coward who was afraid of dying. Siphord pressed himself against the bare concrete walls. If this was a Western, the second hero would come busting through the door with a posse and the sheriff. Hochstetter would be hung at high noon and Hogan would ride off into the sunset with him. Siphord caught himself and mentally cursed. He didn't need to think like that. He couldn't allow his rosy ideas - the ideas that came from all the books he enjoyed reading - cloud his head. He was very tired as it was. He wanted to bow his head and brush back his hair and just let Hogan kill him. Siphord would even hand the man a ragged looking knife to do it.

"You could have fooled me," Hochstetter replied. "I honestly thought you were a fool and a traitor. You called me a rabid bitch, Captain. That doesn't look good for you and I could have had you shot. Instead, I decided that I was going to give you another chance - a chance to redeem yourself with your most noble and heroic death."

"You intend for me to die," Siphord whispered. "What would happen if I didn't die?"

"I'll tell Colonel Hogan," Hochstetter replied. "I will drag you in front of a special formation and give them sticks and clubs and batons to beat you to _death_."

Siphord didn't doubt him. He shuddered and pressed as close to the opposite wall as best as he could. Siphord watched the man with wide, terrified eyes. He had the wild feeling that Hochstetter was going to grab him inside the cell and beat the hell out of him. Siphord tried not to hyperventilate. He grabbed one of the bars and gripped it with white knuckles. He shuddered when one of the guards unlocked the cell and let the small, greasy Major in. Siphord tried to get as far away from him. Hochstetter just walked in front of him and kicked Siphord in the balls. Siphord fell to his knees with a howl of pain. He grabbed at his groin, trying to soothe the pain, but Hochstetter kicked him in the face.

Siphord went sprawling. He curled into a bawl to protect himself, but steel toed boots crashed into his ribs over and over again. Siphord didn't even try to stop the screams or the fact that he was begging in German. Hogan was going to find out sooner or later. It was best to get it over with while he was used to pain. Hochstetter dragged Siphord to his feet and struck him across the face. Siphord darted to the far corner of the cell and huddled into himself as best he could. He didn't know what he could say that would stop the pain or make this wild eyed madman stop hurting him. Hochstetter grabbed Siphord around the neck and squeezed. Siphord grabbed at his hands and scratched the man even, but to no avail.

Just when black spots danced in front of Siphord's eyes, Hochstetter threw him to the ground.

"You _disgust_ me," Hochstetter growled. "A true German warrior would have taken that like a man while you cower like a woman!"

"I don't have the information," Siphord gasped. "God, I don't know how to make you understand - _I don't have any information for you_!"

The fact he screamed that in English might have just saved his life. Hogan came bursting through the door, followed by multiple guards. Hochstetter paused, his black leather covered glove covered in blood. Siphord crouched down against the bunk. He knew he looked like a mess - like he had just been beaten by a madman. He tried not to look at the German guards and the way one of them - a reedy man with a moon pale face and a _very_ large gun - poked at the Gestapo men with his bayonet. Siphord just curled up there. He didn't want these men to look at him or the way his ripped shirt hung open to his chest. Siphord was already humiliated. He didn't want to make this even worse.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Colonel Hogan screamed. He looked so wildly angry that even the guards drew away from him. "Just leave him alone! _Just leave that man alone_! Are you trying to kill him, because there are far easier ways to do that than beating that poor devil to death! Why don't you use a bullet or a piece of rope and spare us the noise!"

"Don't give him ideas," Siphord whispered. "Please, Colonel Hogan, don't give him any ideas!"

"Shut up," Hochstetter snarled. He slapped Siphord across the face. "Captain _Martin_."

Hogan cleared his throat. "Why don't you let me clean the Captain up, will ya? You're going to kill him."

"That might be the idea," Hochstetter growled. He dragged Siphord out of the cell and threw him at Hogan's feet. "But, seeing as you care about him so much..."

Siphord saw the boot coming for his face again and some part of him decided that it was a good idea to faint. So he did.


	9. Chapter 9

Hogan had no patience for Hochstetter or anything like this. If that bastard was going to kill a man, he needed to find a bullet or a nice piece of rope and do the job quickly. There was no need to act like some kind of heathen dreamed up by a screwed up old devil who liked to write about exotic tortures that he dreamed up along with pink elephants. Hogan had seen enough men die that he didn't want to hear it, too. And the blood, along with the way Martin fainted... The guy was beat up. They needed a medic - someone that wasn't Wilson and someone who knew how to deal with serious injuries. They needed a hospital. Stalag 13 didn't have a hospital because Klink, in his infinite wisdom, decided that they were only going to get healthy POWs, so they didn't need one.

Hochstetter glared at him and acted like he was going to step on Martin's throat. "Do you care about this man, Colonel Hogan?"

"I care that I don't have to live some stupid Western torture porn novel," Hogan snapped. "Martin might like that dreck, but I don't. Why don't you just take this shindig all the way to Tombstone, Arizona and get yourself gutted by the Apache or something."

Hogan might as well go with a theme. He had peaked at some of the books that had came in this morning - air mail was a wonderful thing, especially one had the ear of a general - and some of those had disgusted him. Martin would never know the books that wound up getting burned in the stove or the one that was turned into kindling. Hogan had already made up his mind to never tell Martin that he and Carter were Native, but those books really sealed the deal. The guy was already cagey. The last thing he needed to do was get himself killed by some crazy kid who was all hopped up on some stupid book and thought the Indians were after him. Martin was going to be crazy when he came out of it. Hogan didn't want to make it any worse.

"I see that you share the American sense of humor," Hochstetter snarled. "Warped, degenerate, and disgusting. Just like your unconscious Captain."

Hogan rolled his eyes. He didn't dignify that with a response, but he grabbed Martin by the armpits and started to drag the injured guy out into the snow. This was going to go south when Martin woke up, but he didn't have any choice. Hogan needed to get Martin out of there. Hochstetter was going to kill him, probably crush his throat or do something disgusting like that. Hogan wished he was strong enough to throw Martin over his back, but he wasn't and that meant that Martin was going to get snow down his britches. He waited until he was clear of the cooler before dropping the still unconscious Martin in a snow drift. The bleeding stained the snow blood red. It wasn't a good sign, but at least the guy wasn't dead.

Yet.

Kinchloe wandered over and glanced at Martin. "I was wondering what the screaming was about. Newkirk thought that Klink got his hand caught in his violin again and couldn't get it out. He looks bad, by the way."

"I know." Hogan sighed and dusted off the snow as best he could. "Help me pick this guy up, by the way. For a skinny guy, he weighs a ton!"

Kinch turned his head and glanced at the milling guards. "I got word from London, Colonel. The guy's into RADAR. And not just any RADAR, some kind of fancy RADAR that could win the war. He was on Redstone Arsenal for awhile on one of their secret projects. Then he wound up getting drafted and wound up in North Africa. He was part of one of those RAT patrols - I think it means "Ranged Arial Territory" patrol of something like that. He was flying some kind of top secret RADAR plane and got shot down. I guess they took him back to Germany to get the information out of him."

Hogan didn't doubt on it. He glanced down at the prone man as he started to haul the man towards the barracks. They needed a way to get Martin to the local hospital without Klink knowing too much about it. Hogan didn't need to go back to that hospital because that idiot doctor still thought he was Inuit and probably wanted to take him apart like a lab rat. The Germans could get nasty when they found out they were dealing with Native people - some of them thought that he would burst out into a war dance and start trying to scalp people. At least Martin was acting like a decent person for once and he had no idea that he was dealing with a member of the Choctaw Nation.

Martin groaned when he was sprawled out on Hogan's bed. Hogan brushed back his sandy blonde hair and smiled softly when the man stirred some. He really was pretty if you were into that sort of thing and the bruises really stood out on that pale skin. If there had ever been a tan, it had been faded for a very long time. Martin groaned softly and lolled his head over. He truly did look like he was half dead right about now and he was probably getting close to that way. Hogan pulled the blanket over him and sat beside him. Someone had to keep vigil if the guy choked on his own blood. He was probably bleeding internally and Hogan was willing to bet that at least one rib was broken.

"Well?"

Hogan looked up at Klink. "Not today, Commandant. He's... probably not gonna make it through the night. Hochstetter worked him over good."

There were times to be stubborn and times to talk. This was a time to talk.

"I'll call an ambulance," Klink softly said. His eyes were a little soft and he brushed the injured man's hair aside. "I heard about your little outburst by the way. Very unbecoming of an officer and, also, probably warranted."

"Yeah." Hogan pulled the blankets back up. "Just... bring him back alive, okay? It's nice having a roommate."


	10. Chapter 10

Siphord woke up. He had no idea where he was, just that he was lying on scratchy sheets and the air felt clean for once. He just lay there for the longest time, trying to understand where he was. Had Hogan found out that he was a spy? Was that why he had been wounded like he was? He shuddered for the longest time and then he saw the way he was cuffed to the metal bed. So they still thought he was American. That probably explained why he was looking at stone faced guards instead of pretty nurses. He opened his mouth to say something in German - to tell him who he really was, that he wasn't some American Captain - but then he thought better of it it. He didn't know if these guards would talk and he did want to live.

One of the guards stood up and gave him a long look. "So this is how you American swine live - high off the hog while our men starve to death! They should have killed you when they had the chance or let the Gestapo kill you. Would have saved me a great deal of trouble!"

"I apologize for getting sick," Siphord growled. He smirked when he saw the man start. "That's right, _Jerry_. I speak German and better than you, I might add."

That was because he was German, but none of these men could know. It meant his life and death, _literally_.

"Why didn't you say so?" the guard asked. He grinned and gestured to the other one. "Hey, Hans! This one speaks German like one of us! Makes me wonder if that was why the Major was going over him like that - he already speaks our language and maybe they wanna make him one of us. Or, get this, maybe they wanna flip him and make him into a spy or something!"

Hans, who looked like the smart one, sneered. "All that means is we'll need to be a lot more careful with what we say if it can understand us."

Siphord rolled his eyes. There was a reason he went to Libya instead of staying in Germany. For one, the company was better. Siphord had always been curious about Africa and the Middle East and he figured that going to Libya would be the easiest way to satisfy that curiosity. He could stand in the Sahara and pretend he was a cowboy crossing Death Valley to meet up with a mule train, for one. Those dreams had kept him sane when he was in the desert and again when he had been locked in those cages. Siphord hated being underground. It was so cold and wet. The darkness had seemed to be crushing around him, dragging him into some dark abyss that never saw the light of day again.

Siphord had the feeling that he was underground. After all, he was an American prisoner of war as far as the guards knew.

Siphord rolled his head over and coughed a little. His ribs ached to the point that he couldn't take a deep breath and if he coughed, he spattered the pillow with blood. Heinrich had died this way. He had been thrown from a camel and trampled by the same vicious beast. His ribs had been pulverized, with one through the lungs, and there was nothing anyone could do to save him. Siphord had held him as he died and sang to him. The same song - how the rose lost her thorns - was on his lips now. He didn't want to sing that one, not now. The beautiful songs that he had sang as a child were forbidden now, mostly because Siphord wanted to live.

If they knew he was a spy... Hogan would finish what Hochstetter had started and, this time, he wouldn't be an angel of mercy. He would be an angel of death, probably with a crowbar. Siphord shivered. He hated crowbars. He had been attacked with a piece of rebar before and those little metal ridges - ridges that could be sharpened and studded with glass - had ripped through his skin like a hot knife through butter. Siphord still had the scars on his side. He hoped that Hogan would never discover that he had once been an English prisoner of war until he was traded for some singer. They had treated him like some great hero when he came back, even though Siphord had never done anything more than dig a ditch in the rain.

Hans glared at Siphord when he rattled his cuff against the metal. There wasn't much Siphord could do other than just be annoying, but he was going to do it. His hips were sore. His head hurt. He needed to take a piss and he would be damned if he asked this man like he was a child at the gymnasium. Siphord squirmed. So maybe he really needed to piss, but he didn't think he could ask. Hans didn't like him. His buddy - the dumb one - might take pity on him and let him take a leak, but Siphord highly doubted that he was going to get up. Siphord groaned softly and turned his head. He hated the way he felt right about now, but there was only so much his pride could take.

Thankfully, he was saved when a rather rough looking nurse walked into the room and gave them both a long look.

"Get him up," she finally said. "One of you, support him. Allow him enough privacy to wash off and use the restroom - I want him out of here as soon as possible and giving him a bladder infection won't further that in any meaningful way. He should be well enough to go home sometime today. And don't jostle him too much - if you batter his ribs again, you're going to send him right back here."

For once, Siphord was glad about how direct she was. Any excuse for a good bath was a good one, even if he had to strip down in front of others. And, at long last, he finally understood why Colonel Hogan hated washing in front of others - this was _humiliating_ and he could feel the hatred in every pore of his body.


End file.
